


Something New

by joycometh



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 23:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16376927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joycometh/pseuds/joycometh
Summary: After Something Blue, Spike allows himself one night to acknowledge something new.





	Something New

A bloke could get an awful lot of ruminating done while chained in a bathtub.

Of course, a bloke couldn’t do much else.

So Spike ruminated.

He ruminated on Dru, naturally. His beautiful, luscious, bitch of a former. She’d be back. Eventually. She _would._ Maybe she’d fight the Slayer for him. That’d be a picture. Dru wasn’t really much of a fighter—not with her fists, anyway—but he could just imagine she and Buffy going at it, soft female shapes hard and angled as they lashed at each other. Over him. Mmmm.

And if it was the Slayer’s movements that were sharp and clear in his fantasy, while Dru danced around the edges as a blurry shadow, he couldn't figure why. Other than that he’d had far too much Buffy in his diet lately.

Not literally, unfortunately.

_The pulse of her neck under his lips. Her giggle in his ear._

Spike shifted uncomfortably in the bathtub, cursed Willow, magic, Buffy, and Giles for good measure, and tried to turn his ruminations to something suitably bloodthirsty. He’d spent the day disgustingly soft and poncey. He needed to focus. Chipped he might be, but he was nobody’s bloody lapdog.

He thought about how he’d take out those commando bastards. Thought about the blood spurting in beautiful arcs from torn throats, like those dancing fountains in city parks. Thought about the crunch of bones as he snapped their necks, took their scalpels and sliced their dicks off, every last one. Then they’d know what it was like to be bloody _neutered._

And then he’d go, covered in blood and victory, and fight the Slayer again. Like he was meant to. The way they were supposed to be, not all cuddly and warm and holding hands.

_The strength in her grip. The smile in her eyes, just for him._

Yeah, he’d kill her. Kill her good, this time. No holding back now. He’d drink and drink and drink and drink, and it would put her in his arms again, soft and hot and sweet, his fangs in her neck, her heartbeat in his ears, her moan as she died.

_Her moan as he slid his hands up her side. Her breathy pants as she fought to keep him safe._

_Bloody hell. It wasn’t fair._

He sighed and shifted again, the heat in his groin giving him signals he was steadfastly refusing to acknowledge.

 _Stupid bloody spell._ He’d been freaking _engaged_ to the Slayer all day. It felt wrong, for all the reasons. Because he hated her. Because she was barely more than a girl still. Because he wasn’t under his own control, and he’d been made to behave in ways he never would have—helping Giles, worrying over invitations and venues, keeping his hands to gentlemanly places for the comfort of his blushing bride when all he’d wanted was to feel every inch of that soft, warm, Buffy-perfumed skin—

No, wait. It was the magic that made him want to touch her at all. Not the magic that’d stopped him from touching her more.

Yes, that was right.

She’d been so warm in his lap—warmer even than humans usually were. She must be so hot, inside. His hips bucked a little of their own accord.

He groaned and glared at the bulge in his jeans.

Not that he’d ever find out. Not that he _wanted_ to find out. Sure, Buffy was a cute little thing, always had been—and maybe she was growing into something closer to gorgeous, especially when she wore red—

_Buffy, running her finger temptingly down the side of her neck, lips just out of reach for kissing—_

And of course, it didn’t help that now he knew what she tasted like, how sweet her lips were, how firey she could be. Their bodies fit together temptingly, when they embraced.

She was still a stuck-up, self-righteous, annoying white hat of a bitch. But… fine, she could be sexy when she wanted to. If he was into that.

He wasn’t, for a host of reasons that started with “Dru and me are eternal” and ended with “mortal enemies,” but the contents of his pants missed the nuance. Well, he hadn’t had any in a while. And the “any” he’d had with Harmony had hardly been world-rocking, although you wouldn’t know it to listen to her moans. He smiled grimly at that. Slayer didn’t know what she was missing.

And, well, there’d been that moment earlier, in the crypt, after he’d been knocked out and everything had been kind of fuzzy and clear at the same time—odd sensation, that—and Buffy had looked at him with such care and concern and lo—with such care in her eyes, and then she’d straddled him and kissed him like he was all that mattered in the world, like she could bring him back to life with her kisses, and for a minute it felt like she nearly did.

She hadn’t even blinked when he’d started getting hard under her, the slide of her heat and pressure on his cock the most sensual thing he’d felt in ages. He prayed it meant she hadn’t noticed.

In retrospect, he supposed he was lucky it was the first stiffy he’d popped during the day, what with all the willing, wiggling Slayer he’d had. His prick wasn’t exactly renowned for being demure, and it sure as hell didn’t overly care who was doing the wiggling. (Example A: Harmony.) But either because of the spell or despite it, all his body’s reactions during the day had been firmly PG. Until the end. Until that moment when she’d looked down on him, and he hadn’t cared about weddings a jot, just about the girl with shining eyes he could drown in, who was the perfect mix of soft and hard and sweet and sassy and who wanted him with a desperation that was…

He shook his head again. It’d just been the spell. Broken too soon after, when she’d leapt off him in disgust (and again, he prayed it was lips-based disgust, not crotch-based—she’d certainly made a big deal about his lips a moment later, though that didn’t really help him decide) and said disgust had reminded him what was going on, and if there had been a moment of grief before his own disgust at what he’d done all day kicked in, it didn’t bear dwelling upon. Love was a funny thing, and even spelled-up love was bound to have some tricks up its sleeve.

He’d managed to cover up his hard-on with his duster, and to will it down on the walk back to Giles’, frog-marched between Xander and Anya, each with stakes. It was gratifying that at least someone was still unnerved by his presence, even though he could have run off at any moment, far faster than they could have responded. But Giles’ flat had blood and telly and entertainment in the form of Scooby dramatics, and… bugger it, it was safe.

He hated this feeling. Weak and helpless, pathetic as he’d once been in life.

And yet Buffy still looked at him like he was everything to her…

He knew it was a bad idea. Wrong, bad, stupid. Stupid to ruminate on his fake engagement to Buffy with any fondness. But… he was helpless, hungry, chained up, and still horny from an erection that had never been properly tended to.

Not that he could properly tend to its reappearance now. The chains didn’t leave a lot of room for maneuvering. (And, of course, they made him all the hornier. Dru could get very inspired by chains.)

Still, he rubbed his wrists over the bulge in his pants, tipped his head back against the rim of the tub, and at last, in the dark and quiet midnight, let himself remember.

_Buffy, her brilliant smile as she agreed to marry him. The warmth in his chest as she nodded, a hundred-plus years of anxiety and self-doubt melting away into a moment he’d long ago given up on. Her soft hair under his fingers, the scent of her shampoo in his nostrils. Her pretty, warm-blooded blushes as he told her how amazing, how beautiful, how glorious she was. Her fingers tentative on his chest as she whispered her excitement over the most trivial wedding details. Her jealousy over Dru. The way she teased him with her words and her body and her presence, the way she promised him forever. Her eagerness for his kisses, the shameless way she claimed him in front of all her mates. Her passion, her incredible, burning, whole-hearted passion, all directed at him._

It wasn’t enough. He couldn’t get his body to completion, torn in two between arousal and grief, his anger not quite strong enough to decide the tie.

 _It wasn’t enough._ He didn’t have the memories he suddenly craved, memories of entering her, of knowing her insides intimately. He wanted to have memories of her screams, of her taste, of her shaking in pleasure. He wanted to know her, in every sense of the word.

And he was abjectly, embarrassingly grateful that he didn’t have those memories. Because if he did—how would he be able to forget all this tomorrow?

That was the plan, of course. Buffy had a head start on him, but she had another bloke to distract her (he ignored the roil of anger he felt at that), and all he had was his chained up hands and an overactive brain.

So he’d give himself tonight. To remember. To ruminate. To get her out of his system, so he wouldn’t be haunted anymore by how damn _right_ it had felt to have her in his arms. To be in hers.

He sighed, gentled his rubbing, and pictured her once more. Lips parted, hair tumbling around her face, eyes shining with love.

Let himself remember the day he’d been loved. The day he’d loved her, even as wrong as it was.

Tomorrow he’d hate her.

Who was he kidding?

_Tomorrow I’ll hate us both._


End file.
